I turned twenty-six at the weekend, an event I've been dreading as the evil thirty figure draws ever closer. I wasn't in much of a mood to celebrate that, so on Saturday, I was in Dublin celebrating my last day of being twenty-five and awesome. I was with family and friends in a bar comfortably away from the chaos of Temple Bar where there was a live band. I had lots of fun, let my hair down (literally and metaphorically) and had a rendition of Seven Drunken Nights
dedicated to me.
My first act upon turning twenty-six as the hours rolled into Sunday morning was to go to the loo and vomit. Classy, huh? My only defence is that I was trying to relive my twenty-first birthday. Incidentally, I am twenty-one forever, now, and don't you forget it.
Work's been more gentle this week than usual, so that's pretty good. Attended Russian class yesterday and was horrified at all these absurd grammatical rules suddenly assailing the class (as hobbitblue
I'm just coasting along this week, looking forward to an arty day out in Liverpool on Saturday with jaffacakequeen
. I've dropped alcohol from my diet (well, till Saturday) and I'm eating pulses and fish and all those boring things. It must be my age. >: